


Stop the World

by foolsonparade



Category: Arctic Monkeys, The Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: AOTU era, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Night Stands, Pining, Tour Bus, and sleep deprivation, basically this is all over the place, boys crying, elevators woo, rated for swearing and tears, semi-autobiographical in that respect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 01:59:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3832813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolsonparade/pseuds/foolsonparade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few days after their second night of drunken passion, Alex is neck-deep in avoidance of Miles. That is, until they get stuck in an elevator and things come to a head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stop the World

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Never happened (as far as I know). I don't own Miles or Alex; I just occasionally borrow them for my twisted enjoyment.  
> This is essentially the result of my desire to prove myself outside of the realm of sickfics. It is hurt/comfort-esque in respects, but I primarily opted for hurt of an emotional nature this time and thus created the angst- and fluff-filled word-vomit you're about to endure.  
> The sleep deprivation factor is self-expression at its worst. I'm absolutely exhausted, and therefore Alex must be absolutely exhausted. Not to mention it spurs on strong emotional responses. Three cheers for using every available excuse to make poorly-executed ideas go down easier.   
> I'll wrap these notes up with a great big I'M SORRY and an even bigger THANK YOU.  
> Enjoy, and let me know what you think! <3 xx

Originally, the blame lay on alcohol. Alcohol and the tightening of summer's friendly grip. But then, that's usually how it goes, isn't it?

Alex has spent the past year repressing the memory; the heat in his belly, the smell of sweat and alcohol, the fiery light of a summer evening filtered through wafting curtains. He's struggled against the recollection that greets him with every cigarette, every sip of brandy, every small reminder of Miles and the way he tasted on Alex's lips. He's bitten into his cheek until blood has seeped between his teeth so many times over the past year that he's begun to associate the metallic taste with Miles’ presence, and he's done it all out of a desire not to stir the hornets' nest. Better to give yourself an ulcer trying to protect a friendship than to trade one evil for another.

For a long time Alex would have rather worried himself to an early death than mess with what he had with Miles. But for a long time their drunken mistake remained just that—a mistake.

When you make a mistake twice, however, it ceases to be a mistake. By round two, it's a choice.

Round two and said choice arrived just the other night on the heels of a few too many drinks and a favorite record. A kiss—nothing more or less. A kiss gift-wrapped along with ample reason to harbor contempt. That taste—cigarettes, brandy, and something that may well be more scent than taste—greeted Alex's lips like an estranged friend sauntering back after a spell of no contact, and just like that the memory of a summer evening in their French hotel was tainted with hideous consciousness.

The first time is a mistake; the second time is a choice. Alex was crushed under such words before he even had the chance to jerk away from Miles' oddly encompassing lips and they've grated on his brain ever since that latest drunken night.

An actual headache lingered long after the resulting hangover dissipated, one more nagging than excruciating and primarily symptomatic of the exhaustion that's added crushing weight to Alex's limbs of late. Plagued by both insomnia and profuse fatigue, he curses Miles and his maddening mysteriousness for the jet lag they've cast upon him. He's fortunate in that his newfound nocturnal habits allow him to more effectively avoid speaking to Miles, but less fortunate in that today he’s running on empty.

Yesterday came and went with only a single shot at sleep—the two hour period between soundcheck and the show—entirely wasted by Alex’s excessive thoughts, and last night was half spent tossing and turning and half spent pacing to gather enough of his wits to write. Much like sleep, the words never came.

Morning arrived with the promise of a nap on the bus, but again Alex was disappointed when their drive began and consciousness held fast. At present, his head is pressed to the window, body angled away from the aisle so no one can be tempted to initiate conversation, and his thoughts paste open his burning, tired eyes and shackle him to the waking world. The seat beside him lacks an occupant and the emptiness chills his whole body.

Unlike the Monkeys’, this bus is not one fitted for cross-country touring: it lacks bunks, comfortable lounging options, and privacy. Instead it’s set up like a standard tour bus, with two rows two chairs deep and an aisle stretching down the center, allowing mobility and separating either row from the one opposite, a chasm between pairs of seats. This particular bus is fitted for brevity of travel—a stark reminder that this whole Shadow Puppets adventure is nothing more than a nick on a broad stretch of time—and to seat many people, ideal for transporting a small orchestra.

If he’s honest, Alex hates this bus. Perhaps when he and Miles were routinely sat side-by-side he had tolerated it and maybe even appreciated the intimacy that came with such travel arrangements, but when he’s not speaking to Miles and hopes to catch some evasive shut-eye, he positively loathes the vehicle. Such is the case today.

Today, he can’t even pinpoint where his grounded hatred ends and the tint of sleeplessness begins. Whether his seat (which seems to have been upholstered with the leftover carpet of a laser-tag arena) is really as itchy and uncomfortable as it feels or if this is merely how the exhaustion has engineered him to feel is a mystery comparable to any Nancy Drew has cracked, and he squirms and writhes, desperate for a comfortable position as unattainable as sleep.

Alex is aware, however muddled his acuity is, of a balmy lemon scent just perceivable for the stark contrast it provides against the smell of acrid sweat and bleachy cleaning supplies characteristic of the bus. This new scent, remarkably enticing, has an element of cleanness itself—the lemony notes are similar to those present in Lysol—but there’s a smokiness, like cigarettes, there that plays off of the citrusy smell and the understated muskiness Alex recognizes from a shampoo in a certain someone’s shower. He doesn’t join the dots, however. At least not until that pleasant voice cuts through his reverie like a machete.

“Bit hard to sleep on the bus, innit?”

He jerks, inhales, and beside him Miles barks a laugh he’d normally find charming. Today, it just seems insensitive.

When his heart has stopped hammering, he remembers the question and formulates an answer. “You’ve no idea,” he says, half because he’s certain it’s true and half in hopes of scaring Miles off. Of course, not easily swayed, Miles doesn’t even bat an eyelash. “Even harder with people talkin’.”

Miles stares. “Have I done somethin’ wrong, love?” he asks, and Alex feels half tempted to gag at the use of the nickname ‘love.’ “You seem cross.”

He almost laughs.

“Christ, what could’ve given you that idea?” Alex offers sarcastically, too damn tired to worry about safeguarding Miles’ feelings. He’s not heartless though. He does recognize the shine of hurt in Miles’ eyes and has just enough energy to feel regret, though not enough energy to apologize.

“You’re bein’ a bit unfair, considerin’ you haven’t told me what you’re upset about,” Miles points out, and Alex can’t help but think that he shouldn’t _have_ to say what he’s upset about. He knows that that’s a bit unfair, but all the same, he feels blistering anger stir in his stomach like the harsh nausea of a hangover, and he thinks he’d do literally _anything_ to sleep it off.

Unfortunately, he knows very little about making deals with the devil.  

“I really don’t feel like talkin’ about this now, if you don’t mind,” Alex says, voice leaving little room for argument. Miles never did take up much room, though, and his arguments are no different.

Pursing his lips, Miles says, “We’re gonna ‘ave to talk about it eventually, y’know.” He looks at Alex as if addressing a stubborn toddler. “Might as well be now.”

It occurs to Alex that he could tell Miles to fuck off, but the very thought of forming those two simple syllables is exhausting. Somehow, he can actually feel the dark circles under his eyes, tugging at his face like deadweights and blurring the edges of everything his gaze lands upon, and he almost thinks he’ll faint.

“There are people here, Mi.” He silently berates himself for letting the affectionate nickname slip past unmindful lips. “’s not the best place to be at each other’s throats.”

He can all but feel his neck trembling beneath the weight of his tired skull, and it takes every ounce of Alex's willpower not to use Miles' inviting shoulder as a headrest.

“Chrissakes,” Miles allows, shaking his head slowly. “Is it that bad? I didn’t even know we were fightin’, to be honest.” A frown twists his features, eyes as wide and wretched as those of a kicked puppy, and Alex almost melts. He holds his ground, though.

“Please, Miles,” he says. “Not here.”

There’s a silence; a lull in discussion, if one can call it such when the tension takes up as much room in the air than conversation did, and Alex wonders if Miles will respond at all. Part of him doesn’t want him to, but another part is relieved when he finally does. His words loosen the rope cinched around Alex's chest and fill his veins with warm relief.

“Not here,” Miles concedes, standing, and Alex lets go of a sigh when the younger man stalks away to sit by one of the string players near the back of the bus. In his absence, Alex breathes more freely.

Of course, he should’ve considered his words a bit more carefully, for it occurs to him when they’re pulling into the hotel parking lot that he and Miles really will have to talk about it eventually, and Miles will definitely opt for sooner rather than later. As easy as it is to blame his inattentiveness on exhaustion, it doesn’t help the situation one bit.

Alex considers (albeit briefly) staging a fainting spell just to avoid the nagging threat of conversation. He certainly feels dizzy enough to swing it.

He can’t do that, though. Even with the mixed signals and (perhaps unintentional) disregard for his feelings, Miles cares about Alex, and Alex couldn’t cause so much worry deliberately. That doesn’t mean he’s not going to avoid their impending discussion, though; only that he’s going to run away from the threat far more literally.

When the bus has pulled to a complete stop, Alex is the first one out into stormy parking lot to collect his bags. He hopes to make it to the elevator before Miles has the chance to make it off the bus. 

Unluckily, though, Miles is just as quick as he is.

His sluggish limbs are partially to blame for the lack of speed with which he makes it to the elevators, but the rest of the blame lies on Miles’ own firm will. The only person Alex has ever met with stubbornness comparable to his own is Miles Kane, and today is yet another example of the trouble this can cause.

Rushing as he is, he still makes it to the lifts just at the same time as Miles, and in the end they’re stuck very much alone behind closed doors.

They’re staying on the fourth floor, rooms right beside each other, and Alex calculates that it will take a total of four minutes to reach their rooms if they’re in a hurry: two minutes on the elevator, a minute and a half to find the doors, two seconds to unlock the room, and an extra twenty-eight seconds spent dawdling. That’s four minutes he’ll spend in agony, mind racing as fast as exhaustion will allow, dreading the possibility that this discussion won’t shake out in his favor. He almost doesn’t think he’ll survive.

Through what could be an act of God or just the universe fucking him over, though, Alex doesn’t have to wait. Because after thirty-four seconds in the elevator (he’d been counting), part of the way between the ground floor and the second floor, the elevator halts and every light dies.

Outside, thunder rolls as if taking credit for the system failure, and Alex almost cries.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Miles groans, pressing his forehead against the wall. The spectral backup lights flicker on and hit Alex’s eyes like an onslaught of needles, and Miles turns to face him, slumped against the wall, with a look of ‘well, shit’ etched on his expressive features. His naturally fair skin looks almost sallow in this lighting, and Alex can only speculate at how shitty he must look. “Think we oughtta test out their call button?” asks Miles, bony finger pointing at the aforementioned call button.

 “Can’t hurt,” Alex croaks, voice half failing him. Miles’ eyebrows furrow, but he doesn’t mention it when Alex clears his throat to find his missing voice. Instead, he does as advertised and holds down the call button.

They get no answer. Miles presses it again, and still it proves fruitless.

“Fuck,” he says, and Alex nods his agreement.

Miles runs his hand through his hair, brown locks shimmering in the ghostly light, and leans back against the handrail while Alex follows suit. He gets the bleak sense that this day could not have possibly gone any other way, but he doesn’t mention it aloud for fear of dampening the already-dismal atmosphere.

There's silence, and then Miles breaking it. He never could stand staying quiet.

“Alright, Al, I can’t handle the tension,” Miles says, voice rising and falling in a cadence Alex always found enchanting. It serves as an asset in such a time as this, for even when Alex doesn't like the words he speaks, he'll always adore that musical tone of voice. 

Miles doesn’t exactly finish his thought, but he doesn’t need to. Alex nods all the same.

Taking a breath and relishing the expanding and contracting of his lungs, Alex grapples for a speech he’d prepared so many times over the past few days that he’d sworn it’d come as second nature in the moment. Now that the moment is here, though, glaring like the pale and harsh emergency lights, Alex can’t remember a word of what he prepared. All he can find in his search are the raw and exposed emotions spurred on by their entire situation.

“What’s goin’ on with us, Mi?”

It’s such a broad question that Alex almost worries it’s too vague, but in a way he thinks its all-encompassing nature is appropriate given the grand scale of his worries. And Miles understands his meaning if the worried eye contact is anything to go by, so perhaps his hasty word choice hasn’t fucked things up too much after all.

“I—” Miles is rarely at a loss for words, and Alex can’t help but take this turn as a bad sign. His heart stutters and halts in his chest, and he feels light-headed with premature grief. “Fuck if I know.”

This is the opposite of what Alex needs to hear, and his fear shrugs on a cloak of anger that further shrouds his better judgment. Of course, he’s not really sure what he was hoping for. That Miles would immediately declare his love for him? That he’d tell him it really had been a mistake, a drunken night repeated only out of forgetfulness? Would Alex accept either answer?

Part of him just wants knowledge, answers. He wants somebody to tell him one way or the other, to explain to him their situation that’s so utterly fucked he can’t even determine which bits confuse him the most. Part of him needs only clarity, to know one way or the other, to give him enough to push the whole ordeal out of mind.

Unfortunately, though, a much larger part of him wants something much more unattainable: Miles.

“Are you bein’ serious right now?” Alex asks, frustration thawing the words frozen by fatigue. “After all of this shit, that’s all you’ve got to say to me?”

Miles freezes, brow pinched. “Well, what the fuck would you rather I say?” he half shouts. Miles’ voice is naturally loud, and a raised tone is ill-fitting for it. Alex nearly flinches. “Have _you_ got any clue what’s goin’ on? If you have, I beg you to share with the bloody class, because I’m at a loss here.”

Alex heaves a sigh, all the fight sucked out of him in a single go, and slumps heavily against the wall.

“Don’t you give me that,” Miles says, and Alex can tell that he’s made a grave mistake by losing his temper. He’s unleashed Miles’ rarely-showcased livid side, and he already regrets it with a fierce passion. “If you’ve got something to say, spit it the fuck out.”

The problem is he hasn’t got anything to say. He’s painted himself into a corner, sleep-deprived and without a firm stance, and now he’ facing off with all his preparation having blown away in the first gust of wind.

“The fuckin’ silent treatment,” Miles states. “Perfect.”

“It’s not—I’m not…” Alex can’t help but trail off. His attention is snatched away by the sudden, unjustified need to calculate the number of hours he’s been awake, and as the numbers line up in his mind he can’t bring himself to think about anything else.

All of time seems to have melded, and he’s certain that this is what it truly means to be confused.

“I’m not givin’ you the—” Again, he’s forced to stop what he’s saying, though this time for the opposite reason. Suddenly, he’s too aware.

He barely remembers what they’re talking about and feels rather like he’s waking up from an outrageously realistic dream, like he’s been on autopilot for so long he no longer remembers how to fly on his own. It’s startling, and he blinks around in childlike confusion, effectively draining the anger from Miles’ expression and replacing it with profuse concern.

“Alex, are you—?” He steps forward cautiously, arms held out as if to signify that he has no intention of hurting him. As if Alex would assume such a thing. “You look right peaky, mate.”

‘ _Mate._ ’ The term makes Alex’s heart ache, and he slides down the wall to sit on the floor with his knees pulled up to his chest.

“Are you alright, love?” Miles asks, moving slowly to sit by Alex.

Alex can’t say yes in full honesty when Miles is sitting so close, their shoulders touching, as nothing more than his friend, and so he stays quiet and rests his forehead again his knees.

Just as they’ve settled into the nearest thing to a comfortable silence they can manage under such circumstances, the emergency lights are replaced by the brighter and warmer glow of the proper lights and the elevator resumes its ascent. Neither of the two men feels compelled to get up yet, and so they stay seated until a _ding_ rings out and the metal doors part to reveal a fourth story hallway.

Even then, Alex feels too tired and weak to move right away.

“Are you comin’? Miles asks when he’s stood up, only his ankles visible when Alex dares to tilt his face just barely.

“I’m tired,” Alex responds. When he moves his head so that his chin rests on his forearms, his forearms on his knees, he catches a full view of Miles and is struck by a rush of dizziness only half attributed to exhaustion. “Pretty sure I haven’t slept for two days.”

Miles pauses, and then holds out both hands. “Lemme carry you, then.”

Alex stares.

“C’mon, la, I give great piggy-back rides. Never dropped no one before, I swear.”

His eyes dart to Miles’ hands, and then back to his insistent face. He’s wearing a playful smile, but his eyes harbor a sincerity Alex can find comfort in, and so he finds himself allowing the taller man to pull him to his feet.

When Alex is standing on wobbly legs, Miles yanks him into the hallway and crouches so that Alex has full access to his back. Then, using Miles’ shoulder to leverage himself up, Alex wraps his legs around Miles’ waist, and Miles’ hands grip his thighs in a way that would usually make Alex squirm, but today feels like exactly the kind of contact he needs. He has to combat a contented sigh.

Miles takes off down the hall, strides long and smooth, and Alex rests his chin on one of the arms he has wrapped around Miles’ neck. For all of a moment, Alex is happy.

Unfortunately, the bliss that accompanies their close proximity is soon squashed beneath the weight of Alex’s pining; of his exhaustion coupled with the pain of being close to him, so _so_ close, but not belonging to Miles.

Under this crushing weight, Alex cracks, and he begins to cry.

Miles doesn’t notice at first, for Alex takes great care to keep his sobbing as soundless and motionless as is feasible, but within sight of their rooms Miles catches on to Alex’s distress and strokes his thigh with his thumb in a way he probably thinks is helpful. Really, though, it’s the polar opposite of helpful, and Alex’s tears fall faster than he once thought possible.

“What’s wrong?” Miles asks, tone gentle. Alex wants to scold him for doing this to him, for being so unbelievably entrancing and inaccessible, but he can’t follow through with it when there’s so much kindness present in that bewitching voice. Instead he remains silent apart from the odd hiccup cutting through the silent corridor, and Miles continues the trek to Alex’s hotel room with new vigor.

Now when Alex cries, he cries about the impermanence of it all. He calculates that in thirty-five seconds, he’ll be off Miles’ back—both literally and figuratively. In thirty-five seconds, they’ll be quarreling friends again. In thirty-five, thirty-four, thirty-three, thirty-two seconds, he’ll be alone.

In twenty-nine seconds, Miles will probably shoot him down.

He knows now exactly what he wants to hear, and somehow that makes the inevitability of an end to their fighting so much worse. He’d calculate the odds of Miles saying he loves him, but Alex knows it’d probably only make him cry harder.

Shuffling his weight around outside of Alex’s hotel room, Miles reaches into Alex’s pocket to retrieve his key card with zero hesitance, and then manages to unlock the door without dropping his cargo. He slips through the door a second later and allows it to swing shut behind them, the resounding click serving as an omen for Alex’s imminent rejection, and just as the internal countdown reaches an end Miles drops Alex onto the mattress of his hotel bed and plops down beside him.

“Are you alright?” he asks softly, brushing Alex’s bangs out of his face in a way that makes his heart ache. “You know, you’re scarin’ me a bit, Al.”

Alex sniffles. “Sorry,” he says, voice somewhat hoarse, and Miles looks practically scandalized.

“Don’t apologize.” Something akin to sadness glazes his eyes over, and he reaches for Alex’s hand. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

There’s a second during which Alex feels the urge to retreat, to yank his hand away and shut Miles out. He wants to run away, wants to do whatever it takes to avoid being hurt. In that second, he’d rather cut Miles out of his life altogether than be rejected by him, and it takes every ounce of his self-control not to act upon these impulses.

When these feelings have passed, however, honesty grabs hold of his tongue and he doesn’t fight it.

“I figured out what I want you to say,” Alex says. “But I don’t like my odds.”

Skepticism crosses Miles’ features and Alex almost doesn’t want to follow through with this. The nagging cowardly part of him begs that he flee while he still has the chance, but he shoots it down, duct-tapes shut its mouth, and casts it out of mind.

This time when he takes a deep, steadying breath, the air fills his lungs like acid and he nearly splutters. When he’s gathered as much of his composure as he can, though, he speaks his mind:—

“I want you to say that you love me and want to be with me,” Alex says, words coming out slowly a deliberately, each one forced past trembling lips with great struggle. “I want you to tell me those nights weren’t just mistakes. But I want you to mean what you say.”

As expected, Miles’ face harbors a fair amount of shock, but Alex’s eyes search for a shred of hope amid that surprise. He finds no indicator one way or the other, though. At least, not until Miles responds.

“Alex,” Miles begins, and Alex can already hear the words he’s sure will follow. Something along the lines of, ‘I’m sorry, but I just don’t feel that way about you,’ crosses his mind, so real he’s half certain Miles really said it, and he wills himself not to take it too harshly. Miles continues, and Alex swears he actually feels his heart stop beating. “I love you, and I want to be with you.”

Alex’s eyes burn. He almost thinks this is some cruel joke.

“Those nights weren’t mistakes,” Miles says, “and I really, _really_ mean that.”

He’s not sure what to say. His lips won’t seem to cooperate; they just open and close like a goldfish’s, working to form words that have not yet been invented in any language, never mind English. Again, it occurs to him that this could be a joke, but he refuses to believe Miles could be so heartless. Then, he can’t seem to believe that he’s being honest, either.

“Alex?” Miles asks, concern evident in his expression. “Are you alright, love?”

‘ _Love_.’ Never has that nickname carried so much weight, and suddenly Alex is overcome by emotions all over again. This time, though, when the tears begin, they speak of happiness rather than despair.

Miles blanches. “Al?” he demands gently, placing a tentative hand on Alex’s shoulder. “Have I said somethin’ wrong?”

Hiccupping, Alex shakes his head to indicate the negative. He’s difficult to understand, sniveling as he is, but he still dares to speak: “W-what about the others? The press and the label and our bands and—”

“Fuck ‘em,” Miles interjects. He’s beaming.

“Does that mean you want to be me boyfriend, then?” Alex ventures, moving his hand up to grasp Miles’ where it rests on his shoulder.

“Is that you askin’ me out or askin’ me to ask _you_ out?”

“It’s whatever you want it to be.”

Miles heaves a deep breath, and then fixes Alex with a wide-smiled stare. “Well then I’d like to do the honors, if ya don’t mind.”

“Go right ahead.”

Reaching for Alex’s other hand, Miles angles them toward each other. “Alex Turner,” he says, ridiculously traditional probably for Alex’s benefit, “Will you be me boyfriend?”

Lacking the proper words, Alex nods, and a grin splits Miles’ face in two.

There’s a beat of silence during which they do little more than smile at each other, and then, unsurprisingly, Miles is the one to break it.

“Does that mean we can spoon until soundcheck?” he asks, and again Alex can do no more than nod his acquiescence. “Fantastic.”

_The end_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please leave me a comment if you feel so inclined, or shoot me a message at most-indignant.tumblr.com <3 xx


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